


Contrition

by Kahori_Katsushika



Category: Servamp (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, kinda lol, listen to this with latin choir music trust me, this is just me angsting away to myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-19 05:00:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29620989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahori_Katsushika/pseuds/Kahori_Katsushika
Summary: Jeje has long since left the ships and memories stored away in little bottles, not to be touched, but one day a bottle breaks.
Relationships: Arisuin Mikuni/Jeje | Doubt Doubt
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	1. Sin

**Author's Note:**

> I got to thinking about the origins of this tall hunk of moodiness and after my exhausting, admittedly psychotic, theorizing about their timelines, I came to this conclusion. Enjoy-

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been four days since my last confession.” He murmured, eyes fixed on the green velvet drapery only half discernible in the dim lighting filling the claustrophobic confessional box. “I once more lost my temper. It was just a small child but he was lingering in the outer hall and I knew him well. He is Alexander and on kitchen duty this week.”

“And what did you do?” The soft voice from beyond the altar asked.

“I lashed out. I do believe he may have cried.” There was no response to this but a lingering sigh and he grimaced. “There are more, of course. I was prideful of my position and my duty to oversee the facility in the absence of Father Antonio. I have overslept once and missed the Holy Hour.”

“Unbecoming of a deacon.”

He bit his lip, fingers curling tightly into his palms. “Yes, Father.”

“This is something that I seem to see a pattern of.” The voice had grown lighter and almost joking. “Are you perhaps not a morning person?”

“Not at all.” He muttered sourly.

“See that that be something you work on.”

“Yes, Father.” He began sifting through the recent memories for something more inconsequential, struggling to see past the irritation he felt at the call out and finally settled on the most interesting. “I witnessed a marriage the other day. They seemed quite happy.”

“And the sin?” The voice lilted up in amusement.

“I took the top most layer of the wedding cake.”

There was a desperately concealed snort and then a clearing of the throat and he did his best to hold back a smile. “I think that is enough, don’t you? Is it not time for your infirmary rounds?”

“Yes, Father. Ah- this is all I can remember. I am sorry for these and all my sins.” He intoned dutifully, making to stand and dust the loose crushed velvet from his robes.

"For penance you will help the boy Alexander in the kitchens when you have completed your other duties.” A pause and then, “And no bread at dinner for the week.”

Scowling unseen in the dark, he nodded. “Yes, Father.”

“Your Act of Contrition.”

Taking a deep breath, he settled back onto the stiff wooden bench and let his mind drift as the familiar words flooded forth. “My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart, in choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned-”

The infirmary that he chose most to visit lay at the edges of the city and he often found himself wondering if it was the walk through the crowded, busy streets, or the lack of elderly patients at that particular institute that he liked about it. It was difficult to say really and bore no real worth in contemplating beyond relishing in the somewhat fresh air that blew in from the smaller subdivisions and off the ever renewing water of the fountains so recently restored.

“You’re here again." 

Her voice was gentle and welcoming, clearly biased in her delight at the sight of him, and he struggled to hold back a smile.

"Of course. It is an almost daily occurrence.”

“That it is.” She smiled, ushering him in and down the hall. “I’m afraid most are sleeping at the moment and not much in need of such a friendly face.”

“Then I shall do the rounds with you.”

She once more smiled brightly and nodded, turning to gather her jacket. “Please do!”

Their conversations were always varied and pleasant, and he found her to be a relaxing presence; all at once joyful and demure, and yet suggestively combative and interesting. It was of course, he mused somewhat guiltily, a plus when the sun hit her endless golden hair and flashed, star bright, against the darker colors of her dress.

It was something that he was always mocked for. But then, he decided, watching her laugh cheerfully with one of her patients, worth it. 

“They say there was a werewolf spotted not far from here!” Matteo exclaimed, dropping his plate down on the table. It clattered and threatened to spill and he chuckled self consciously.

“Do not be an idiot.” He murmured testily, pulling his own plate farther away to protect it from the splattering of gravy off Matteo’s. “They will say anything to keep a head up in notoriety.”

“You’re always so dour and pragmatic!”

“I am not, I am merely-”

“Yeah, yeah! A deacon of the church, bent on becoming pope.” Matteo laughed, stabbing his spoon into the lukewarm potatoes they were being served. 

Blowing out a harsh breath, he glared over at his friend. “Don’t say things like that!”

“Well it’s true, isn’t it?”

“You once again demonstrate your enormously empty head.”

Matteo only laughed once more, and he looked away again, down into the dregs of his cup and wondered if it were possible. Was it something that he could dare to dream of being worthy of? “Superstitious fancy.” He muttered, not expecting an answer.

“You know, Faaver Antonehio claims is all twue.” Matteo slurred, mouth full of bread. “He says thas why-” He paused and swallowed loudly, earning another glare. “He says that’s why the city shuts down after dark. That and vampires.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“Folly.” He scoffed. “Vampires are no more real than ghosts.”

“Then what do you think we’re so armed against?”

* * *

“You have demonstrated quite a lack of faith.”

He spun around, long gown fanning out and creating a rustling against the stone flooring in the otherwise total hush of the hall. “Father!”

“Calm down.” Antonio chuckled. “I do not mean in your studies, but in your disbelief in what I’m sure you have been hearing murmurs of in the streets.”

Wracking his brain, he could only come up with one common theme, and he struggled to keep his mouth from dropping open. “Do you mean the vampires and werewolves?”

“Exactly that.” Glancing up and down the hall, Antonio stepped closer, his candle threatening to go out in the sudden rush of air between them as he approached. “For no other reason than your safety, please try to keep in mind that rumors are all based on something.”

Without pausing to think that perhaps he was throwing his friend to the dogs, he snorted. “So all that ilk that Matteo spouts is not just nonsense but true?”

“More so than even he seems to ascribe it, yes.” Antonio answered. He hesitated and then placed a hand on his shoulder, resting heavy and warm in the chilly hall. “You have duties in the morning so try to keep your head, alright? And do not let it affect your sleep. But remember this, you are destined for far more than you see before you now.”

The innocuous statement seemed more confusing than reassuring and so he merely nodded. “Yes, Father.”

Later, as he lay in bed, staring unflinchingly at the dark cavernous ceiling of his room where the moon, long since risen, was casting shadows into the corners, he couldn’t help but picture a large wolf running through the streets and found himself hard pressed not to laugh. What a bunch of ridiculous lies. It was all just childish dreams and jokes blown out of proportion by the uneducated masses. And though it may very well be his duty to love and protect those very people, that did not mean he had to fall prey to their hysteria.

* * *

It was best to focus on the news he had received. Best to not look at the telltale red that was occasionally splattered across his pillows and sheets in the morning. No, it would do no good and so he shoved it far back and to the graveyard of his mind. He would not think of it. Instead he would relish in the knowledge that he would seem to not only be progressing to priesthood but to a place in the College.

He had been warned, months ago now, by Father Antonio, that there were changes in the air, but never would he have dared to imagine something like this.

“Handpicked.” He murmured, watching his reflection in the water basin. He was looking impossibly paler and thinner, his already sharp jaw now razor like, and his eyes, such a lively green, now clouded. “For life.”

It was a melancholy thing to hear of a death, but he could see past that and to it’s natural place in the order of life. It was simply the way of things. That was true in the most dire of situations and it was true now. Splashing a hand through the water, he let out a breath of relief when his image faded into the ripples and he stepped away to begin his morning routine.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” He covered a soft cough with a stomp of his foot on the hardwood. “It has been three days since my last confession and I have fallen prey to pride and fear.” There was no immediate response and so he continued. “I have lost not faith but trust, and I fear death.”

“There is nothing to fear in death.”

“No. But early dea-” He cut himself off, wondering how to parse the emotions that were tying him in knots so frequently now. So much so as to be distracting, leading to forgetfulness, spite, impatience. “I wish penance to renew my trust in God.”

Faced with the city at dusk, he suddenly couldn’t remember the last time he had ventured beyond the halls past midday. It was a colder evening and the wind bit into the hollows of his ribs and forced shivers across his skin. Tugging the cloak tighter around his shoulders, he hurried forward, long legs carrying him past the familiar sights now so strange in the twilight.

The place he had been sent, a seemingly unnoteworthy apothecary, was not far and it wasn’t until he was in sight, breath labored and mind fixed on the sign over the doorway, that he first saw the shadow at the edges of the street. It hadn’t appeared to have been following him, indeed, it seemed not to notice him at all. But when a second figure lunged forward from the open ended alley and sank a flashing blade into the first’s chest, he couldn’t stop the strangled sound of surprise from ripping free of his throat and into the night.

It was a mistake.

Both men, for he could see now that they were men, turned to him and he sank back a step. Mind blank in astonishment, he did not at first notice when the second advanced from the dark of the side street and towards him. It was foolishness to think that the glow of his robes would deter the man in any way but he still, for the first moment, held out hope. He just couldn’t imagine dying in a place like this.

“Hey!” The first shouted and he for a moment found space in his crowded mind to marvel at the fact that the man was still standing, much less shouting so loudly.

“What are you-” His words were cut off by the fist that connected with the side of his head, and seeing stars, he stumbled back until his calves met a small wooden cart parked nearby. His temper flared, burning away the inky constellations in his mind and he frowned darkly. “You should not have done that.”

“Ah man.” The first man moaned tiredly. “What do you think you’re doing hitting a priest?”

“You should not be hitting any one.” He grit, resisting raising a shaking hand to his temple which throbbed more richly with each gust of chill night air.

“Yeah, that’s true.” The first sighed, leaning languidly back against the building, blood steadily gathering at his feet. “But I think it matters a little less if it’s me.”

“Shut your fool mouth!” He roared, eyes widening in yet more dread when he felt his own blood gathering in the crevices of his teeth and escaping the confines of his mouth. 

“Hey, you ok?” The man asked, pushing away from the wall, his hair catching the street light and flashing like snow. “You look kind of peaky.”

“I’m fine!” He spit, biting down on not just his tongue but the overwhelming, overlapping, paralyzing fear that grew suddenly up from that long buried place, watered with the blood that had, until now, seemed to have been staying where it was supposed to. 

“You have quite a temper there, Father.” The man sighed, having finally reached them. He glanced at the second figure who, in seeming disbelief, had not moved since the beginning of their conversation. “I’m tellin’ you. It’s better if he has his way with me. After all, what do I care?”

“You want to die?!” He exclaimed, livid in both dismay and amazement.

“No.” The figure muttered, reaching out now, lightning fast and wrapping an arm around the second’s throat. “But even if I did, it’s not like I can.”

“What in the world do you-” He broke off, watching in incredulity as, with each movement of the mans arms, more blood gushed free and ran like a waterfall down his legs to the cobblestones; he did not seem concerned by this and with what could only be seen as inhuman strength, lifted the second figure over his head and tossed him, light as a child, across the street and into a rubbish pile. The impact rendered the second figure unconscious and the man now turned his ruby gaze back.

“You should probably get home or whatever. Take a long nap.”

“Your- eyes are-”

“Red?” The man interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, well I am a vampire.”

* * *

It was growing harder and harder to ignore, he admitted, as he crept down the deserted hall in search of Matteo. Indeed, most nights now, he found it difficult to sleep for the chills and chest pain. He could feel it digging ever deeper, sinking it’s unknown fingers into his lungs and muscles and wracking him with aches and shivers and now even an inability to eat. He was thinner than ever, as Matteo liked to remind him, joking that a strong wind might be enough to loose his feet from the floor and sweep him away and to Heaven. And it would have been an annoying enough joke on its own but for the twinge of real worry he could discern in Matteo’s eyes whenever he was looked at too closely or accidentally let out a cough that had been punching at the back of his throat for the last hour.

It should have been nothing. He was a man of God. He was pious and good and atoned. It should have been nothing.

But it wasn’t.

There had been no answers for him in the dead of night, or the light of dawn. or in the long watches of desperation every Mass. 

Slamming an already bruised fist against the nearest archway, he winced when the hollowed bones in his hand creaked. Rubbing at the spot, he bit his lip, and tried to ignore the panic that fluttered so like children’s breath at his heart. It would do no good. It would only increase the pain. It would only bring on another of his fits.

Knowing that vampires were real, assuming that he hadn’t hallucinated the entirety of the event a couple weeks, wasn’t making anything easier. His faith, already on shaking legs, was threatening to topple completely when faced with the truth of such creatures, the Damned, lurking in the night, in the city, and free to prey on those they chose. And if they truly existed, then what did that mean for Matteo’s claim of werewolves?

He couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

He was about to give up for the night, winded and miserable, when he turned a corner and almost ran head first into Matteo himself. He stumbled back, barely catching himself on his weakened ankles and shrugged off the concerned hand Matteo put forth.

“What are you doing out so late at night, my friend?” Matteo asked, the faux cavalier tone to his voice grating against already raw and bloodied nerves.

“Looking for _you_.” He hissed. Grabbing a handful of the others robes, he gave as mighty of a pull as he could, one so diminished from his usual that he almost broke down in tears. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” Matteo whispered cautiously. “Do you feel like you-”

“Not about me.” He panted. “About the damn vampires.”

* * *

This was probably the time to go and see Father Antonio, he thought detachedly; there was no coming morning for him. And he would go too, he insisted, argued vehemently to himself, if only he could get up.

“Do you want another drink of water?” The voice next to him asked softly and he turned his head, neck muscles protesting violently. 

The figure there was blurry at best, but he thought he could make out blonde waves. Unsure if he had given a response or not, he blinked, willing the vision to clear. If nothing else, what a sight to be his last.

“Is he-” Matteo’s high alto drifted over from the doorway and the blonde blur shook its head.

“Please come in.” The soft one answered.

A shaking hand wrapped around one of his, seeming miles away, and Matteo’s face slowly materialized. His freckles looked more pronounced than ever and it took him far too long to understand it was the unnatural pallor of Matteo’s face that made them so.

“How are you, my friend?”

Summoning every ounce of life left in his body, he scoffed, the sound weak and wet in the otherwise complete silence. “You- demonstrate- your empty head-edness.”

A trembling smile wound over Matteo’s lips and his grip tightened just a fraction. “What would I be otherwise?”

A priest, he thought sullenly, enviously. It had been _his_ future, his goal and meaning in existence. Now, Matteo would see that Ordainment alone. Perhaps he would even earn his spot in the college, one that he had not even had chance to sit in on. 

There were no answers anywhere.

* * *

When next his eyes opened his vision had cleared, was in fact crystal sharp and bright despite the obvious glow of the moon beyond the windows, windows that he did not recognize. Suspiciously, he cast it about the room and recoiled in shock when he met a gaze he had never seen before.

“Feeling better, aren’t we?” The stranger asked cheerfully. “Tell me! How is your head? Your lungs? Quite a toll it took on you there! I’m surprised you held on as long as you did. Naught but mush in your chest by the end!”

“What are you talking about?” He demanded, eyes flying wide at the restoration of his deep tenor. It was something that he had not heard in the last month of suffering and wavering delirium and it’s sudden reappearance was startling at best and terrifying at worst.

The man grinned, wide and unfettered. “Welcome to your new life!” He stepped back, out of his immediate line of sight, and spread long arms. “How do you feel, be honest.”

“I-” He cut off, scowling blackly and sitting up, once more stunned by the ease with which this small motion, before next to impossible, was now accomplished. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“I’ve already told you.” The man tutted. “Doubt Doubt. That is your name now.”

“My-” His gaze flew to the small mirror over the sink that was inset into the wall. In it stared back a mad version of his face. Returned were his delicate, high cheekbones and attractively curved forehead, leading back into shining ravens feathers for hair, but his eyes… gone was the green of a spring rain and in place was a sparkling. cold ruby flame. “My name is-” He trailed off distractedly, realizing that he could not seem to remember it. All his memories were intact, strong and full of conviction, even the dread soaked ones of the last few weeks, but this, his name, he couldn’t seem to-

“Not any more.” The man smiled. “You are Doubt Doubt. Of Envy.”

The mention of the sin, one of the last complete, coherent memories that he possessed, knocked the wind from his newly restored lungs and he bolted up, lithe and sure on his feet once more. “Impossible! Where am I?”

“Your friend really should have warned you.” The man murmured, looking for all the world as though he were full of pity. “But then, it’s entirely possible he did. Many don’t seem to remember those last few days.”

Without thought, he crossed the room in six staccato steps, his hands already winding around the throat of the man, this tormentor sent to punish his for his dying sacrilege. But even when his fingers, strong now, stronger than ever they were before, dug into his flesh, the man only continued to watch him calmly. Finally, after several moments of blinding rage he forced his grip to go slack, hands falling away from the mans neck, shoulders, back to his own sides, hanging limply.

“You have quite a temper.” The man laughed and instantly another memory was summoned to the forefront of his mind. One of a pale, lackluster youth in worn clothing, with a mortal wound in his chest, tossing a grown man twenty feet; a young man with the same burning blood in his eyes.

“Vampire.” He murmured, the words falling free in numb disbelief.

“That’s right.” The man agreed brightly. 

* * *

It was with both fear and hope that Doubt Doubt stopped just before the first step of the ancient stairs that led up to the entrance, a path he had so oft taken without a second thought. But there in lay salvation, or at the very least, an end to this treacherous half life, this stain upon his humanity. Tugging the hood low over his face, making sure that nothing but his thin lips could be seen, he took a step and then another. He was unsure if it was relief or disappointment he felt when, in stepping through the doorway and into the gold gilded opulence, he did not burst into flames or finally fall dead to the floor.

It had been months, long enough that he was sure that even were he recognizable, no one would have the time to think twice. As long as he steered clear of the back quarters, kept to the crowded main halls and rooms, it was going to be fine, there was no one that-

“Oh my god.” A voice breathed and Doubt Doubt spun on his heel, anguish pooling in his stomach. “You-” Matteo broke off, wide brown eyes suddenly flooding. “I thought he had spoken lies.”

“Who?” Doubt Doubt demanded harshly, forgetting his plan and allowing his feet to follow the pull towards the other.

“T-that man.” He stuttered, taking his own step back in response to every one of Doubt Doubt’s forward. “He told me that you-”

“That I what?” He insisted, now towering over the smaller man.

He could see the moment that Matteo saw the red of his eyes for his face, already pale in shock, drained further, until he was almost a bleached parchment. “Your-”

“Come with me.” Doubt Doubt interrupted swiftly, grabbing Matteo’s arm and dragging him as quickly as he could without drawing attention towards the so familiar halls that led to his room.

The door, as he had hoped, was unlocked and, in pushing it open, he felt a rush of regret wash over him. He should not have come back here. Not when he had for so long agonized over his plan already. Matteo, now following willingly enough, was hovering in the doorway and at Doubt Doubt’s sharp look, swallowed a gasp and darted the rest of the way in. He, whether out of habit or a lack of self preservation, pulled the door closed behind him and then they stood, silently studying the other in the swirling dust motes filling the room.

Matteo, as always, was the first to speak; his voice weak and hollow in the gloom. “He said he could help you.”

“Who?”

“I saw…” His eyes darted to the window, now shuttered, and back. “I met a boy in the square. He was the one you told me about. I thought nothing of it until I saw his eyes.” His gaze fluttered briefly up to Doubt Doubt’s before falling back away. “You were right.”

“Of course I was.” Doubt Doubt muttered flatly.

“When you- you died.” Matteo sucked in an unsteady breath, his vision once more clouding over with tears. “My friend, my dear one, you were dead and I- I think I-”

“You lost your mind.” Doubt Doubt accused, fingers clenched beneath his sleeves, where they could not be seen.

“I could not stand to see you like that. I heard, you know. Father Antonio does not keep secrets as well as he thinks. I kept thinking, thinking that if I could only do something you would be able to, to join the College and-”

“I can do no such thing as I am.” He snarled, stepping forward and whipping back the hood, letting his hair fall free, eyes flashing in the muted sunlight. 

Matteo’s expression grew fearful and awe struck in equal parts as he looked up into Doubt Doubt’s face. “God, what have I done?” He whimpered, hands clasping in desperation between them. “That man, he said that he could change it, reverse your death or- God, forgive me. Please. Forgive me.”

“I will forgive when you have done something about this.” Doubt Doubt whispered, tone dripping in venomous hate. “Find a way to end this suffering or you will only be destined to join me.”

* * *

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” Doubt Doubt began, foot tapping fretfully against the worn wood of the confessional. “It has been eighteen months since my last confession. I have been consumed with hate and vitriol. I am no longer a man of God.”

“Everyone is a child of the lord.” The voice beyond the veil was elderly and breathy and Doubt Doubt found himself wondering suddenly how easy it would be to frighten such a man to death.

“Every one, you say?”

“Yes, of course. All of mankind is held in his loving arms.”

“I am no man.”

* * *

Surely, Matteo would have passed by now, Doubt Doubt mused, watching the water in the hold of the ship slosh worryingly. It had been more than a century. Men were not meant to live so long. And so it was that, feeling his sanity degrade further every day, he decided that it best he leave his beloved city. For what was it now but a painful prison? It was no more his city than the ticket he had used to board this ship had been.

Glancing down, he wondered if the tailor he had contracted had found the request strange. Most likely it was not every day that he was instructed to create a bastard priest’s robes. Now in jet black, Doubt Doubt was confident that he would not be questioned or accosted, and the drape, the heavy fall of the fabric was, despite the passing years, still a comfort. There was no ornamentation, no rosary or trim; those were things from the past, things that were no longer in his grasp, and the memories it summoned had been far too much. Each new election, each new pope and passing of priests and bishops had left him bereft and sinking further beneath the black waves of his own destruction; Doubt Doubt had realized he had to leave, because he could not die.

The veil he wore now had been a gift oddly enough. A strange girl with sparkling green eyes had given it to him on the street one late evening. Wandering alone past the river, Doubt Doubt had stumbled, hurriedly pulling his hood and thick cotton scarf back up and over in fear when he had noticed the girl and her mother near the water’s edge. She had seen though, he could tell by her knowing look, and when, after a brief word to her mother, she turned her steps towards him, he considered running. It would be easy to outrun one so small; he could outrun anything in the world now, after all.

“That looks uncomfortable.” She said solemnly when they were within earshot of each other. Holding out her small hand, she presented a thin, delicately made silk veil. “Take this.”

Doubt Doubt stared down at the offering in stupefaction and it was only when she huffed impatiently and waved the veil around a bit that he was jolted back into active thought. “I do not need it.”

“But you look like you would like it. You’ll breathe easier.” She insisted, and without warning, crossed the rest of the distance between them and plopped the soft material into his hand, which had reached out of its own accord in habit. “Please take it, Father.”

Biting his lip deeply, enough to bring a flash of copper to his tongue, Doubt Doubt curled his fingers over the veil and let all he could think to say fill the void. “I never made it that far.”

* * *

It had become habit to speak lowly, it was far easier to hide his teeth that way. Or at least that’s what he told himself. It was more likely that than, though trapped in a never aging body, he was somehow still growing old in mind. Mumbling and hiding and denying were just so much easier. And when one spent his time making little bottled ships, an infuriating hobby that he had picked up from Matteo, one did not really need to speak.

* * *

The church in this new city was small, but then, all seemed small in the face of the Vatican, he mused, standing in the street and staring up at the dome. It would accomplish nothing, bring nothing but regret and anger, but he still could seem to stop himself from ascending the stairs and gliding into the atrium. Sister like wall sconces and décor greeted him and he breathed a soft sigh. Letting his fingers trail over the statues lining the alcoves, he worked his way towards the altar and paused, staring up at the swirling scrollwork of the inner bannisters.

“Good day!” A voice called cheerfully, and Doubt Doubt started, his gaze flying to the back of the room. There stood what he could only think was the resident priest, and instantly his heart sank. “Don’t worry, you’re always welcome!” The man added seeing the twist of Doubt Doubt’s lips.

“I do not belong here.” He said softly, voice carrying in the quiet of the air.

“All belong!” The priest exclaimed, still smiling. “And you have that look. The call of God, it speaks to you.”

“I have not heard that voice in years."

* * *

She was like a long forgotten dream but try as he might, Doubt Doubt could not place his finger on the memory. It sat, hovering at the edges of his mind, winking in and out of sight in frustrating patterns. Something about her long, blonde hair pulled at his empty heart and drew him in, filled him with a sense of ease and happiness that he had not known in lifetimes. She felt like an unfamiliar homecoming.

She was so, so hard to resist.

And so, when she came to him, found him in that dark basement, biding his endless time and pretending not to exist, he did not think twice, did not stop to question why she wanted him. Only rejoiced shallowly in what little feeling he could summon that there was still some reason for his continued presence on this cursed plain, some meaning in his cruel existence.

And now it was too late. She was standing before him, bereft and broken, mad from the hole in her heart, and they were contracted and he had only two options. Both were unthinkable and once more he was left with the clarity of vision that he had never seemed to possess in the moment. Someone, a man he once knew, had joked that his hot head was the reason he had made it to deacon. "You’re just too stubborn and scary when angry to say no to!” He had always laughed and Doubt Doubt spent a moment admiring the clarity with which he could recall such words. But what had been his name? 

“You have to.” She slurred, leaning forward and draping herself over his shoulders. “You’re _mine_ and I say and so you _have_ to.”

He remained silent, hoping that she would grow bored and lose interest, but he had no such luck and her anger was too strong, her hate too powerful. 

“You _will_.” She demanded, pulling out a kitchen knife, one that looked pilfered from the family’s heritage collection, if he had to hazard a guess. “Use this, it will be so easy. He is so small~” She thrust the knife into his hand and barely looked when, in sliding the blade through her own, she sliced open her lily white palm. “Tomorrow is someone’s birthday and I must make a cake. You can think of how you want to do it and then we’ll have two reasons for cake!” She used the bloodied hand to swipe back her wild hair, falling in clumps over her forehead and Doubt Doubt almost couldn’t resist the urge to jump up and pull her hand away, saving that beautiful color from the sin of her blood. “Figure it out, or I will." 

He was small, though not as small as the one he had come to find, and Doubt Doubt only just saw him in the doorway of the little ones room. Standing there, staring openly into Doubt Doubt’s eyes, he seemed to feel no fear, though the flash of the knife was visible in the setting sun’s flames through the window. Yes, he had always been an odd one. Doubt Doubt had only talked with him several times, just enough to place his face and name in the great tide of those that resided behind the walls of the mansion he now haunted. Mikuni was his name, yes and he was _her_ son; that much was obvious as he possessed the same silken cornflower hair. 

Neither said anything and, in a fit of determination, Doubt Doubt turned from the doorway, tucking the knife away. He had not intended to use it but between his worried distraction and the siren call of the contract he had found it repeatedly in his hand over the course of the last few hours. 

Mikuni watched him go, he could feel that razor sharp gaze piercing his back, and only when he had once more hidden himself away in the basement, tucked into the darkest corner he could find, the heat of the boiler a comfort to his chilly scales, could he finally breathe a sigh of relief.

Surely, she would not be able to find him here. And without his poisonous presence perhaps she could regain her mind, find once more her love and soul that he had so come to enjoy. The connection sang, even within the limited confines of the building but she was not truly thinking, had not been for months, and so he hoped she would not be able to follow it’s call.

When hours later the sound of footsteps roused him from his fugue like doze, fear cramped his lungs, shooting ice into his already frozen veins. How had she-

But the figure that stopped in front of his hiding place was not hers, and he relaxed somewhat. No, it was the boys. Mikuni’s. And it was with a piqued interest and vague sense of dread that he wondered how this one could find him when even his own master could not.

"I have a proposal for you.”

* * *

Adjusting the veil, he approached the cold stone steps that he had spent a lifetime treading up and down and now had not seen in decades. The sun was wasting away behind the promenade and yet people still lingered, modern attire and garish colors at odds with the old world design of the building. Jeje took a deep breath and swept up the staircase, attempting to keep his heart rate and back even. There was after all, nothing to fear. He had entered before, many times, in hopes of destruction and atonement, in desperation, and in rage. It was not absolution he sought now, but the simple peace of truth.

The high, arched ceilings, as beautiful as ever, rose above his head and he sighed, feeling that old cloak, once so comfortable and now only a gaudy costume, fall back over his shoulders. It had been his duty, his only desire- a dream no longer within his grasp. All around him, the scrolling designs, checkered framework of paintings, carved bannisters, and painstakingly carved statuaries reflected back the memories he had carefully piled over with dirt in the past hundred years of existence. Flooding back in such a wave they were incomprehensible and he almost lost his step. It was only when he noticed a set of curious eyes on him that he regained his composure and, straightening the shoulders of the priest robes he had donned so fretfully that morning, strode on. They fit just as well, as they should, as he had not changed, and in the ensuing observations he noted the vague curiosity replaced by an awed sort of respect. So it seemed he still looked the part.

Wasting time that he did not have, knowing Mikuni was holed up at their hotel room, most assuredly watching the clock in begrudging silence and counting the minutes, he trailed along the many familiar winding passages and elaborate stairwells, admiring the filter and fall of the sun, like solid beams, from the windows and across the dizzying tile floors. It was all so equally unchanged, he thought in amazement.

Pulling the freshly cleaned fabric left to right, the light petering out as he did so, Jeje sat on the loving, sturdy bench and waited. The sounds of rustling could be heard on the other side and then a polite cough. With a stranglehold on his bewildered emotions, he cleared his throat and began, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” He hesitated. “It has been eighty-nine years since my last confession.” The priest on the other side, whoever he may be, to his credit, managed to tamp down on his noise of shock, no doubt confounded by the voice he was hearing. Supposedly that of an as of that moment at least hundred year old man, it was still as silken and low as the deepest of chime bells. “I have committed the gravest of sins. An accomplishment for my already dark soul.”

“God will forgive al-”

“Not this.” Jeje interrupted, pushing past the ingrained, resurfacing habits of deference. “Not any more. I have corrupted the young and innocent. I have sullied his family home and life. Ruined it as surely as I am ruined. First through his mother and now through, most detestably, him. She was loving and warm, the love of his life, and because of me she fell into a deep madness. She wanted the worst of things. And now she is dead.”

There was a heavy pause, the priest- no, the mortal man- on the other side, pulling in a deep breath, as though in preparation. “Was it an accident?”

“No, Father. It was murder.”


	2. Fate

There are smiles of Mikuni’s that remind Jeje of someone, though he can not quite place who that someone is.

These are the ones that are most meaningful, the ones that Mikuni lets show unfiltered, un-tempered with hidden plans or ulterior motive; a purely honest smile that reaches from the corners of his gently curved lips up to his eyes, melting them from cold steel to sun warmed gold. They are Jeje’s favorites, even though he could probably count the number of times he’s seen them in the years they’ve been together on just two hands.

There were other things about Mikuni that rang familiar, like a church bell in the foggy morning, but Jeje didn’t like to think too deeply about things like that. The past was best left where it was for unchangeable things would only ever bring stasis and suffering to the soul. All of this would run occasionally through his mind, incorporeal, idle musings that held no sway over his mood, and he would let them, carefully keeping his distance until they had once more passed. It remained this way until one morning when he glanced towards the kitchen doorway after hearing Mikuni give a frustrated shout.

“Damn it!” He yelled once more for good measure, staring down at the pancake he had been attempting to catch in the pan, and missed by a good three feet, sending batter splattering across the floor.

Jeje turned back to his ship, hiding the tiny smile that hovered over his lips. He had warned him that it was more difficult than it looked.

“What do you say we just skip the pancakes?” Mikuni asked boisterously, coming to lean in the doorway, arms crossed as he watched Jeje work. “And call a maid service.”

Still fighting the telltale look of amusement, Jeje kept his head down, back bent over the miniature, and Mikuni huffed in annoyance. When, after seven stitches along the sail, he still hadn’t returned to the kitchen, Jeje sighed and finally glanced back at him. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’re never hungry!” Mikuni accused, throwing his hands up. “Well, I need coffee at least.” But he made no move to turn back and instead his eyes shifted to the small sail held so carefully in Jeje’s hand and he grinned, that snarky, unwelcome grin that Jeje found so grating. “So, what’s with the tiny boats anyway?”

He asked it as a slight, as a harmless poke at Jeje as he was so wont to do whenever he was feeling inadequate or embarrassed and normally Jeje let these roll off his back, forgiving the youth their ignorance, but something about the question was sharp and quick. It took aim and hit a memory that Jeje had not even known he had lost. As he sat, staring unseeingly at Mikuni, he felt the small needle and canvas square fall from his hands, and Mikuni’s gaze shifted from teasing to a curious worry as he watched but Jeje could not find his tongue to redirect the situation.

A name had hit him with the force of a bullet. A soft, lilting name that he had not said or heard in over four centuries.

Matteo.

Matteo had taught him the infuriating art of bottling ships.

All at once, as though it had been a floodgate that had suddenly been thrown open, everything that had been repressed came flowing back, drowning him in the fear and rage and hurt again. So heavy and loud were the waves of emotion that it was several times before he heard Mikuni call his name and when he finally pulled himself back up, resurfaced from beneath the crushing weight of failure and regret, it was to find Mikuni crouched in front of him, brows twisted in unease, hands resting on his stiff shoulders.

“Are you ok?”

If he had been any more in his right mind, Jeje would have found it absolutely staggering to hear such a simple, caring question directed at him, but as it was, he was not capable of thought, and so he merely stared blankly back into the wild golden eyes and tried to decide if he was actually going to throw up.

With all the force of will left in his body he managed finally to breath a weak “yeah” and then could only pray Mikuni would lose interest, his ever busy mind discarding the experience as inconsequential. At first it seemed that Mikuni was going to ask another question, try to dig deeper into the newly unearthed, bloody remains of Jeje’s sanity, but after a moment his eyes darted away, back towards the kitchen, and he stood, letting his hands fall from where they rested.

“Get ready to go. I wanna go into town for a cappuccino.”

The fresh morning air was welcome and helped to clear his head. 

It was rather sunny and so he had finally given up the effort and simply wrapped himself around Mikuni’s neck as he so often did, secretly reveling in the warmth. Mikuni’s endless chatter also helped to soothe him and soon enough he was dozing off, having learned long ago that listening to anything Mikuni said with any amount of concentration was pointless. It was better to just get the gist, check out, and then when prompted, respond affirmatively.

Times like this, times without subterfuge and scheming and fighting were his favorite and Jeje always tried to keep the feeling of them bundled up tightly and safely where he could access it again later. He grew so tired of the constant warring, and, if he were being honest, a content, safe Mikuni was far better than a frigid, angered one. This Mikuni, like the one that made pancakes sometimes and liked lavender scented candles and would play solitaire and drink coffee all morning, was softer and gentler, less likely to poke and prod and be generally annoying. It was definitely Jeje’s favorite version, but he was so very unusual to see.

* * *

It seemed that Mikuni had taken more note of Jeje’s strange episode than he had let on for it soon became apparent that he was suggesting more and more early morning walks with badly concealed concern, his tone light and fake as he insisted that the coffee shop downtown was better and he just simply couldn’t bare to have anything else.

“You are so dramatic.” Jeje sighed finally, standing in defeat and tucking the small book he had been reading back into his pocket. “Let’s go.”

“What is that?” Mikuni asked, his eyes tracking the movement of Jeje’s hands as he retied the cinch at his waist.

“What is what?”

“That little book.”

Jeje hesitated, it was rare for Mikuni to show any interest in anything Jeje did at all aside from the occasional mad inquiry, and when he found genuine interest in Mikuni’s expression, he gave in and pulled the book free once more. Holding it out for Mikuni to take, he started towards the door. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

It wasn’t until several blocks later that he finally began to explain, glancing over and watching as Mikuni browsed the first few pages of the little directory. “It is a book of-”

“Names!” Mikuni interrupted, eyes still glued to the tiny text. “But they’re odd.”

“They are predominantly Italian.” When Mikuni only raised a brow in question, he continued. “Genealogies of Vatican City, and any related diocese.”

“Uh huh.” Mikuni hummed skeptically. “And why are you reading this? Is this what your little errand was the other day? You went to the library?”

Jeje did not dignify this with a response, deciding he had said enough. There was no need to explain that he had been- was- desperately scouring any and all census sheets, service rosters, anything he could find, for the name Matteo Rossi. It wasn’t anything he wanted to explain even if he could figure out a way to. But Mikuni was clever, dangerously so, and soon he was watching Jeje, the book still clutched in his hands.

“Who are you looking for?”

Closing his eyes, Jeje sighed. It was no use trying to keep anything from Mikuni, he knew this, had relied until now on his inherent disinterest in anything about him to protect him from prying eyes, but as was always the case with such a troublesome man, he had decided at exactly the wrong time to become invested. “A man I used to know.”

A strange emotion passed over Mikuni’s face, one that Jeje could not quite place, as though he were painfully curious but angry, and he flipped the book closed, handing it back. “How typical.” When Jeje did not answer, he pointed out over the street. “That’s the shop I’m trying today, come on.”

The sky had been over cast when they left and was still obligingly dark and so it was that Jeje was following along on his own two feet today. When he had just stepped up to the curb across the street he heard it- the soft, musical voice of someone speaking quick, fluent Italian. It struck some secret place deep in his mind and without thinking he froze, eyes searching the crowd, somehow knowing, feeling it in his gut that- yes- just in front of them, sitting in the cozy little veranda chairs of the very coffee shop that Mikuni had set his heart on, were two men. Each was dressed in long black robes, the telltale vestments laid carefully over their shoulders- Jeje would know the look anywhere- with steaming mugs of drink clutched in their hands, but it wasn’t the dress of the men that caught his eye, but the shining autumn brown of the youngers hair, soft and constant looking as though he had just stepped from out of a summer storm.

In a daze, Jeje found himself walking towards the table where the men sat, unsure why he was even approaching. When he came to rest at the very edge of their table, both glanced quizzically up at him and he was suddenly terrified. They could not see his face, and it would not matter if they could or not either way surely, but what of his soul? Could they sense it? None had ever before but that had been years, centuries, ago.

“Is there something we can help you with?” The younger one asked brightly, smiling. The other man threw him a vaguely disgruntled look and Jeje could have laughed. 

Of course. Matteo always was a bleeding heart.

Jeje felt Mikuni’s curiosity pull at him through the contract, sharp and impatient, but he ignored it, and for the first time in all the recent years, spoke without the use of the illusionary magic of his curse, the words fitting like a glove on his tongue, a language he had never thought to need again. “No. I’m sorry, Father.”

“Ah! It is always so nice to hear a familiar language, no?” He responded in Italian as well now and Jeje felt the eons slide away, leaving him oddly bereft and exposed.

Mikuni’s curiosity had spiked, tinted now with an almost violent irritation, when he had failed to understand what Jeje had said and, fearlessly, he barged suddenly forward, putting himself too closely to Jeje’s elbow, staring down at the men. “Who is this?”

At his words, the young mans brows rose in subtle amusement and he once more smiled. “I am Father Matthias.” He said, holding out a hand.

Jeje had never been more tempted to shoot Mikuni on the spot then when he merely snorted, arms crossed defiantly across his chest and refused the offer. To his credit, Matthias seemed unfazed by this and after a moment glanced at Jeje and extended the same hand. It was with great trepidation, nay, an almost debilitating hesitation, that he finally reached out and clasped it in his own.

It was like any other hand, warm and smooth; there was no shock, no angry gods lightning strike, just a simple handshake. Unsure if he was disappointed or relieved, he withdrew his and swallowed nervously. Why had he approached these men? What did he hope to accomplish? This was not truly Matteo, and never would be. There had been no spark of recognition in his soft brown eyes, no sudden flash of memory or past life. He should not have come over here. He should walk away right now, spare himself the anguish and the tangible building of Mikuni’s wrath. He should-

“Why don’t you have a seat?” Matthias asked, gesturing to the two empty seats at the table. “We just got here and like I said, it’s always nice to hear the mother tongue!”

He sat down, not thinking, acting on impulse, and behind him heard Mikuni make a strangled noise of outrage. Not bothering to wonder if he would throw a fit and run away or not, he turned towards the other man and held out his hand. "It’s a pleasure to meet you.“

After staring at him for a moment, he put out his hand as well, meeting him in the middle, wrapping calloused, short fingers over his. "Father Angelo.”

Matthias clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. “You’re always so dour!”

Jeje’s heart, already beating at an irregular, surely unhealthy, tempo, sped up and he barely kept the gasp building in his chest from breaking free and falling garishly on the table in front of everyone. Hands clamped unseen on his thighs, he bit his tongue until he tasted blood and struggled to stay afloat.

“So what are you two supposed to be?” Mikuni asked suddenly, apparently having decided that his curiosity outweighed his annoyance. Leaning forward on the table, arms crossed, he tipped his head to indicate the deep purple stole that lay over their shoulders. “Priests?”

“Obviously.” Jeje muttered under his breath, earning a kick to his ankle from Mikuni who continued to smile predacious-ly across the table.

“Correct!” Matthias said, pointing down at his robes.

“We’re exorcists.” Angelo then cut in, watching Mikuni as though waiting for a specific reaction.

He had feared it. In seeing the collars and rosaries, Jeje had come to the conclusion that they must be so, but had held out a vain hope, a desperate plea, that he was wrong, had simply forgotten even more than he originally thought he had lost to the sands of time. It had been a surprise to find that, when he had met those familiar warm, kind eyes, he had felt no anger, no hatred or loathing, just a simple yearning and pitiful nostalgia. Now, sneaking a look at Matthias as he leaned forward, immune to Mikuni’s prickly aura, to explain their reason for being here, Jeje realized that he also was not shocked that, in a world such as this, where he could be ripped from the mortal plain so easily, where werewolves and demons and vampires were real, he did not find it at all hard to believe that reincarnation was also a fact of life.

“So tell me!” Matthias turned to Jeje, expression open and friendly. “Your pronunciation is beautiful! Where did you grow up?”

“Ah. I was from… Vatican City.” He stumbled over the name, distracted by the increasingly interested looks Mikuni was giving him; no doubt he would be paying for this when they got home. Throwing caution to the winds, he continued, trying to keep his voice audible despite his nerves. “I studied. In the seminary. There.”

“You don’t say!” Matthias exclaimed, grinning. “What stopped you?”

Still studiously ignoring Mikuni’s quiet, varying sounds of surprise, he hesitated, chest tight. “I was- not suited to the calling.”

His eyes softening in compassion, Matthias laid a hand on Jeje’s arm where it rested on the table. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. We all have different fates. There are many ways to answer Him.”

Jeje was staring down at the hand, the gentle fingers and pale expanse of skin, just as freckled as his face, and it was only when Mikuni subtly dug a boot into his ankle that he tore his eyes away. Feeling his face heat and for just a moment forgetting that they could not see it, he ducked his head down. “That may be true, yes.” He managed to murmur. Matthias withdrew his hand slowly, looking curious but didn’t say anything, and it was, strangely, Mikuni who broke the ensuing silence.

“As I’m sure you’ve both surmised, I am _not_ from Italy. But I am interested- tell me, how does one go about becoming a priest?” He was staring hard at Angelo, singling him out to answer and leaving Matthias free, amused and trying not to laugh, to turn to Jeje once more.

Still grinning, he shrugged to indicate that he had no intentions of rescuing Angelo from Mikuni’s rabid questioning and instead leaned over, pointing at the bag over Jeje’s head. “Forgive me, as you’ve already seen I have a tendency to stick my foot in my mouth-” He laughed and Jeje almost gave himself away, almost let slip a wistful “I know”, and then continued. “But I wanted to ask. Why do you have that on?”

A hand reaching up unconsciously to pat lightly at the brown pressed pulp, Jeje bit his lip. What kind of explanation even made sense? He couldn’t possibly claim he was embarrassed, what kind of human wore a paper bag over their head anyway? Mikuni sure made fun of it often enough. But the truth, that he was ashamed, that his heart fluttered in panic at the very thought of anyone that had ever known him seeing his face after he had become this monstrous betrayal to his every faith and belief, was no more an option than saying he simply liked it. All of a sudden he realized it had taken him too long to answer and Matthias’ brow was creasing in worry and before Jeje could stop himself, just wanting to wipe the anxious look from his face, he blurted the first thing that came to mind. “My eyes. They’re… frightening.”

“Is that all?!” Matthias exclaimed. “My friend, you have nothing to fear here. I have seen all you can imagine. Why don’t you remove it? Just for the rest of our lunch?”

Never would he have dreamed of doing it, never would he have allowed himself the foolish indulgence, but he wasn’t given the choice. Like an unexpected flash of lightning, Mikuni reached over and, pinching the very corner of the bag carefully between his fingers, whipped it off. As his hair fluttered down and free across his shoulders, Jeje turned to stare accusingly at Mikuni, the sudden anger he felt frightening, but froze when he was met with a somber, sparkling gold gaze. Without a word, Mikuni gently folded the bag up and laid it on the table, placing his arm securely over it, and looked back to Angelo, expression bland as though he had never looked away.

“It seems your companion doesn’t think you need it either.” Matthias said brightly when Jeje had finally found the courage to glance over.

“Either?”

“I don’t see anything strange.” He said levelly, eyes wide in sincerity as they looked straight into Jeje’s red ones. “Now, with the fresh air, what do you say we get something warm? I’ve always found stew to be a good outdoor food.”

* * *

It would seem strange to Jeje for the rest of his existence that Matthias had not said anything, not mentioned the devil in his eyes or the unnatural pallor to his skin, but it was something that, like all the other somethings, he preferred not to think about. A simple memory that could warm or chill depending on the lens it was viewed through. Now, months, years, centuries later, glancing over and finding Mikuni perched beside him on the couch, tongue between his teeth as he tried, enraged, to fit the sail he had sewn through the neck of the bottle, he thought that maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

“You must fol-”

“I know already!” Mikuni snapped, almost dropping his hold on the tweezers. “You’ve told me! Why do you do this?! It’s infuriating!”

“It was a comfort.”

Lowering the bottle and peering over, Mikuni hummed thoughtfully. “A comfort from what?”

The question surprised Jeje, still so unlike Mikuni it was to ask, and so he didn’t think before he answered. “From the fear and tedium.”

“Fear of God?”

Unsure if it was jest or genuine, Jeje merely sighed, looking away, out the bay window to the porch over which he could see the afternoon sun sinking lower and lower, towards the horizon line of the new city they had found. “Fear of failure.”

“How could you fail?”

Hiding the small smirk as it crossed, fleetingly, over his lips, Jeje shrugged before reaching out and taking the bottle from Mikuni. “Is it not obvious that I did?”

“Who was that man? Really.”

His tone was low, leaving no room to avoid, and Jeje frowned. He had been afraid that Mikuni would bring it up again. When they had parted ways, leaving the two ill fated priests at the café, he had watched Jeje like a hawk, refusing to let him out of his sight for the next forty eight hours and finally, at his breaking point, Jeje had resorted to his snake form, knowing in that at least, his expression was indecipherable. Mikuni, out of character, had not said anything about it, only made sure that Jeje was wrapped around his neck wherever they went. If he hadn’t know better he would have thought, indulged in the idea, that Mikuni was actually worried he might disappear, running off to find the ruins of his past. Whether it was emotion or simple self preservation that motivated this intense vigil didn’t matter. It was just nice to know that if he were there or not mattered in the slightest.

“He was…” He trailed off, unsure how to explain. Knowing in his heart, dead as it may be, that it had been Matteo, was different than saying it out loud. And in the end, he still wasn’t sure he even wanted the truth to be heard. Matteo was never going to be safe, never have the life he truly deserved, because somewhere along the line his soul had been so ensnared with the evil he had ignorantly summoned he was now fated for a path that Jeje could do nothing about.

Eventually, tenacity fueled by their meeting, Jeje had managed to dig up a roster that listed one Father Matteo Rossi. He had lived in the same seminary, the same time; there was no question. The aged little book, now clutched worryingly tightly in Jeje’s hands, had gone on to say that Father Matteo, upon his ordainment had chosen to branch out and been quite successful, listed as one of the Vatican’s top exorcists. He had had few partners, often going alone, choosing places and people far removed from their home, leaving with little expectation to return, only to do so, shocking those that had bid him farewell. Viewed fondly by all who met or knew of him, his reputation had brought him fame and status, though it appeared it was never something he made use of. In the end, after fifteen or so odd years, he had met his end, and that’s where the information had abruptly cut off. In a fit, Jeje had hunted up everything even remotely related that he could find, well aware he would regret knowing the details but needing them all the same.

When he had finally returned home that day he had slid beneath the couch, finding the heat register that ran along the wall and curling up on it. Mikuni had already dragged him through the coals about his daily excursions to the library and now, after what he had found out, he wasn’t sure, even being immortal, that he could survive another sarcastic tongue lashing. He must have dozed off because it was here that Mikuni found him, hours later, and after pushing the couch back, pulled him free.

“You should have known better than to go digging.” Was all he said, wrapping Jeje around his neck and wandering back to the bedroom.

Now, weeks later, he seemed to have deemed it a once more breachable topic and yet Jeje was still unable to answer him. Perhaps it was simply that there was no answer; there never had been. “He was a friend.” He said plainly.

Watching Mikuni consider this response, he wondered if maybe this was, in itself, an answer, that the similarities between them, that spark of sass and fire, the innate ability to annoy, the quick silver smiles like honeyed light, were all that mattered, if that, in Mikuni, Matteo and Jeje himself, might be able to find forgiveness. Mikuni finally turned to him, mouth open to say something but Jeje interrupted, freeing the words that had lay buried so deeply for so long before he could even decide not to.

“I think you’re my fate.”


End file.
